


broken bones

by streetsamurai



Series: Jenny of Blackwater [3]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Hurt, Gen, M/M, Rape Aftermath, Young Arthur Morgan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:15:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23901433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/streetsamurai/pseuds/streetsamurai
Summary: Arthur tries to put himself back together. John's gonna help with that.
Relationships: John Marston & Arthur Morgan, Micah Bell/Arthur Morgan
Series: Jenny of Blackwater [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1392520
Comments: 23
Kudos: 58





	broken bones

Hosea and Dutch are fighting.

Arthur’s scribbling in his journal. The drawing is that of a small shrimp, or of a creature resembling a shrimp, considering Arthur has only seen one briefly in a zoology book back in San Francisco.

John’s sitting across the tent, pretending to read.

John and him both have about as much talent in theatrics as a mouse has in fine arts, and so Arthur keeps noticing, and keeps scribbling the best mix of a crustacean fishy thing he can imagine.

It’s John who admits his loss first, putting the book down. “What is it about this time, you think?” he asks in that hasn’t-spoken-in-a-week voice of his.

Arthur has been doing his best to ignore the fight, to focus on something else—the silly shrimp, for one—but just couldn’t drown out the shouting. Both men seem to have calmed down for now, but Arthur still doesn’t feel like leaving the tent.

“Blackwater,” he says with a shrug. Arthur’s heard Hosea starting with the name of Micah Bell.

“Yeah, what else is there.”

There’s a lot.

The silence hanging in their tent seems to spread through the whole camp.

Arthur does his final line in the last shrimp doodle—poor thing looks more like a loaf of bread or an obese fish—and puts his journal away as well.

Doesn’t take long for him to get restless. He turns his pencil in his hands, re-puts away the journal a couple more times, in an everlasting search for a book safe haven from Copper. Rearranges his white dress shirt, ruined with grass spots, the one with a costume to fit it Trelawny got him for another lead of theirs, until it was all blown to hell during the Massacre.

John doesn’t seem to mind the silence at all.

Arthur's the first to give up.

It’s a bright day out. Bright, as in Arthur covers his eyes from the sun while his hand blindly searches for his hat, finding it atop the chest serving as a footrest to his cot.

Pearson’s at his usual thing, butchering some perfectly fine rabbit meat. Miss Grimshaw’s with the girls, who are awfully quiet as well.

Arthur circles his tent to get to the hitching posts.

Someone, probably Hosea, has tied his pinto closer to the mares. Stallions wouldn’t take to the new addition well so soon, that makes sense—but the pinto looks plain miserable, mowing at an already balding spot of grass, as far as he can reach.

“Hey, boy,” Arthur says, caressing his mane.

The pinto looks up briefly, bumping him in the stomach and stomps, no doubt demanding treats. Arthur doesn’t have any, and he absolutely isn’t going to go through the camp looking for something.

“Oughta give you a name, I s’pose,” he says and bites his lip. His voice seems odd to his own ears—has he always sounded so small? Can that be the reason for—

The pinto snorts, and Arthur pats his neck.

“Keepin’ him?” comes John’s voice from behind, making Arthur jump.

“ _Shit_ ,” he hisses, spinning around on his heels. “Why’d scare me for?”

John looks at him with his head cocked to one side, scout jacket hanging off his shoulders, coffee in hand, a fresh-looking gauze around his hurt wrist, looking like he has been watching for some time from the distance and not has just gotten up from his bed with an injury-aided hangover a moment ago.

And in a reply to the question, John only shrugs, “I didn’t. So?”

“No,” Arthur says, meaner than he means to. “No, ‘m not keepin’ him.”

“Why not?”

“I want—“

“Yeah, yeah, I heard that one with Dutch. So, why not? Seems like an honest horse,” John nods, taking a sip of his coffee and tracing through the thick black mane with his free hand.

“He’s either Mrs. Adler’s or an O’Driscoll’s horse,” he admits. Yeah, that doesn’t sound reasonable at all, seeing as Mrs. Adler haven’t as much as looked in his direction and probably wouldn't mind Arthur calling him his own. “I figured someone else can use him.”

John only sighs, and it’s up to God to decide if he saw right through Arthur or is just nursing his hungover.

“Guess we’re both horseless, then.”

“Guess so.”

John’s beautiful silver bay racehorse, one he’d acquired—stolen from an old money Frenchman—during one of his jobs with Hosea, is up in the mountains right now, her freezing carcass feeding the wolves and birds of prey. And John’s here, casually checking the pinto over, looking like not even the hangover is hindering him, let alone the loss of Tess.

The slashes across his face aren’t as red and inflamed as they were a week ago, so that, at least, is a progress.

Looking around and seeing that no one is up to anything particular—except Hosea, who’s taken up guard duty as neither Charles nor Javier seem to be around—Arthur itches to get out.

He goes back to sleep instead.

* * *

“Come on, Arthur, you can’t sleep the whole day away!” Hosea wakes him, kicking him lightly in the shin.

Arthur finds himself on his stomach. He coughs and groans, groggily testing his voice, before turning to his side to face the man.

“What,” Arthur asks. He’d imagine his state would amuse the man, but instead Hosea seems even more worried.

Hosea coughs in his fist—and that cough, Arthur really doesn’t like it—and turns around, waving for Arthur to follow. Hosea walks almost hunching over, like he’s in pain or feeling weak, and that’s enough to make Arthur shoot out of bed and into the cold air.

He hears the pinto’s curious neigh and sees the horse lying on his side right next to the tent, almost leaning on one of the poles, his ears trained on Arthur.

That’s one friendly animal, Arthur supposes.

Hosea’s already at the table, recovering his breath, by the time Arthur catches up to him. He gestures for him to sit.

It’s not easy to see the details in his half-sleepy state, and the bright blind spots dancing in his vision in the sun certainly aren't helping, but with the smallest effort, what Arthur sees is enough.

Hosea looks like he’s aged another year in the two weeks they’d spent up in Colter. The worry wrinkles his face even more, and Arthur—Arthur loves Hosea, he truly does, but right this moment? He would rather be somewhere far away.

It’s the weight of their circumstances that gets Hosea so worry-stricken and serious. Right now, Arthur wants nothing more than normalcy—Hosea Matthews, the easy-going brother to Dutch, father to Arthur.

“You know, you haven’t seen the worst of me,” Hosea says, and it’s so off-point, Arthur can’t help but snap back to the present. He meets the older man’s eyes, and Hosea holds his gaze grimly. “The year my Bessie died… Well, that ain’t been the best year of my life. John’s seen some of it. Not sure if he told you that.”

Arthur shakes his head. John’s mentioned Bessie, of course. During the rare moments of them sharing brotherly secrets, John revealed that Bessie Matthews was the only human being possessing enough patience to stand John’s teenaged self and enjoy that time spent together.

John also never talked about her demise. By how briefly grim he got, Arthur always figured her death wasn’t a good one.

“I’d spent an entire year drunk… A full year of my life, most of it I can’t remember,” Hosea says, almost reminiscing, gesturing at himself. “Soon after that I started getting sick easy, and, well, only a fool can think a drink isn’t bad for a man.”

There’s something else, Arthur feels it. Something Hosea wants to asks. Maybe knows better not to, as no questions follow.

“Boys, Javier and Charles, they broke Bell out today. Had to shoot him out of the rope, you see,” Hosea nods pointedly, “the town of Strawberry was very eager to kill him as soon as they could. Can’t imagine the whole thing was any good.”

Arthur’s mouth goes dry at the words. “They got out okay?” Javier doesn’t like Micah’s guts much. Arthur can’t imagine Charles Smith is any different.

“Yes, they, ah, they returned a short while ago. Went to Valentine to visit the local saloon. Maybe you should join them,” he says, leaning closer to Arthur for a moment. “Get your mind off things. Not the best way, but it works sometimes.”

“Micah there, too?”

“No. Told ‘em he won’t come back without an apology gift, or the like. So go. Maybe take Lenny with you, will you?”

And Arthur goes. He finds Lenny and with the others at the campfire.

They all seem so damn tired, weary from the mountains, Arthur almost feels bad dragging Summers anywhere. But Lenny agrees quickly, patting John’s shoulder in a goodbye so eager it's ought to leave another bruise.

John doesn’t go with them, and so it’s just Lenny and Arthur together on their way to Valentine.

“So, what happened with Bell?” Lenny asks.

Arthur can only snort. He’s been mostly focusing on turning his pinto’s attention away from Lenny’s mare, Maggie, who looked cautiously interested in the new horse.

At least the pinto’s not anything like The Count. If they had another stallion like that at the camp, Bill’s beloved tongs would’ve come to use.

“Nothing good,” Arthur says, not hiding the grudge in his voice. “Bastard got drunk, went back to Strawberry, then I got drunk,” he pauses there, catching his breath to not let the tears even try to start His throat's already constricting because... Because Arthur got drunk of his own accord. There was no Bell forcing all that hooch down his throat. “I think knives were involved. Finger fillet? Then I—I passed out, beat and all, since we’d had that train job and we just got from Colter _and_ Micah went all the way back to Strawberry… I woke up half-dead, half-drunk, to him shooting up the damn place.”

He remembers being in so much pain he couldn’t sit in his saddle without constantly changing position, and all that wasn’t forgotten after the chase with the law. The pain isn’t forgotten now, either—but it’s not as bad. It’s just down there, and it’s not the good kind of pain, like when a bruise from a fight heals.

“Yeah, I know how he gets,” Lenny says, and to Arthur's relief he doesn’t sound too upset. “Any time with Micah is drinking time if he goes to do _business_.”

“Y-yeah.”

“Damn bastard cost you that job, didn’t he?” Lenny asks suddenly, turning in his saddle. “That Worths coach? Can’t believe Dutch believed him over you. He didn’t even change his mind after the whole… Blackwater ordeal. That was Micah’s idea, too.”

The _What’s happened in Blackwater_ is on the tip of Arthur’s tongue, but he doesn’t get to ask it as the stench of sheep hits them in the nose. Town like this, it figures, a man either works with sheep or he drinks or both. The theory proves itself correct as they find themselves near the half-packed saloon.

“Gotta be like, one in the afternoon?” Lenny comments while Arthur focuses on a careful dismount. He's aiming to land on the wooden boards covering the muddy drag near the entrance, and the splash of dirt as he makes the jump isn't as bad as Lenny gets it, nearly his whole foot now muddy.

Charles, Bill, and Javier are already inside, deep in a conversation with a pair of working girls.

Arthur heads straight to the bar.

“What’s wrong with you, Arthur?” Lenny says, gesturing ‘the first round’s on me’ to the bartender. “Usually you’re the ladies man and all that.”

“Not until I get a few drinks in me,” Arthur says easy, but that comment sours his mood further.

He doesn’t want anything to do with the working girls. He doesn’t want to do anything, period, except for getting blackout drunk and waking up to a town not shot-up by an unhinged inverted psycho, that’s what he wants.

Maybe he wants more to do with Lenny than the girls he doesn’t know.

In the end, it’s all Arthur’s luck that lands him right into the mud he was so careful to avoid earlier. He feels every punch, and the one that lands on his stomach makes the drink he’s just had come right up. 

Doesn’t make him any more sober, or his punches any less sloppy, but the nausea pushes him to end the fight as soon as he can.

And this goon—he’s _big_ , bigger than Dutch or Bill or anyone Arthur’s seen before.

Arthur lands a hit to his side, and with a better aimed one to the underside of his chin topples him. Straddles his hips, hits him in the face—and they start rolling, and with each roll there’s more mud in his face, and his head gets lighter from the lack of air.

That’s when Arthur's mind loses the touch with what's happening. 

Frantically punching anything Arthur can reach, landing a few lucky kicks in, Arthur’s _panicking_ , and if he thought he didn’t have enough air before now it’s—

“That’s enough!” he hears a booming voice through the pounding in his ears, and then the weight of Bell—no, the goon, the fucking bulking idiot from the saloon—is off him, and Arthur can breathe, and there’s mud in his mouth but _he can breathe and Micah’s not here—_

“Enough, I said! You kind folk can all go home now, the show’s over!— Arthur, son, can you get up, please, stop rolling around in the dirt, that’s—“ Strong hands hoist him up, and he stands on his wobbly feet and then plops down on the stairs to the general store, wiping the dirt off his face and feeling more wetness spill from his lip and chin. His hand comes back all bloody.

Dutch gets him a wet handkerchief from somewhere, and when Arthur doesn’t accept it momentarily, starts wiping his face himself.

“And here I was, all happy and giddy after getting Mr. Trelawny back on our side—only to find you rolling in the dirt like a boar,” Dutch scolds him. “And you, boys? He could’ve _killed_ him.”

There’s a silence, and then more squelching steps, and Javier, sounding like he got a good face-punching of his own. “I’m sorry Dutch, Arthur, I uh, was just about to… you know..."

Arthur looks up at the whooshing sound to see Javier wielding a broken-off table leg, bits of sharp ends still on it.

Dutch pinches the bridge of his nose. “Mr. Trelawny, please show Bill, Javier, Charles to our… discussed job. But don’t do anything yet. _Arthur_ , come on, big boy, up you get. Lenny! Please get his damn horse here.”

Arthur ends up riding behind Dutch on The Count. The Arabian is so soft-gaited Arthur can’t wrap his head around how this horse could be so damn mean, but hey.

His head and hands throb—from the fight more than from the drink, since he didn’t get the chance to get too many in before the blood started boiling. Maybe he even overreacted with that man. He couldn't have meant something different… Not what Arthur’s addled mind took the words for.

_Pretty boy._

But well, they still fought, and Arthur’s brain still painted the picture of Micah landing those few punches that sent Arthur completely off the rails. Arthur must be looking rightly miserable right now, as even Miss Grimshaw overlooks the state of his clothes.

John’s not in the tent when Arthur crashes on his cot, but through his heavy sleep, he hears Marston shuffling with his things much later.

Arthur doesn’t sleep the night, but neither is he really awake.


End file.
